Free Just Plain Pickled to Death by Tamar Myers Page A

didn’t mean to say it so loud.
    “My father took a big loss in the Depression, and we inherited a huge mortgage. Then back in the seventies we had to remortgage the place—soaring fuel prices for the machinery and falling beef prices. Something about steak being high in cholesterol. At any rate, I’m broke.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “No, no, I’m sure it’s true. Beefworld had an article on cholesterol—”
    “I mean about being broke, dear.”
    His shoulders, already sagging under the weight of eighty years, sagged further. “I don’t make jokes about money, Magdalena. If I sold the farm tomorrow and paid off all my debts, I would still owe money.”
    “How much?”
    “Maybe a couple of thousand.”
    “I could loan you that,” I said charitably. I tithe from my income, and it could just as well go straight to Aaron Senior instead of taking a bypass through the offering plate. That being the case, I wouldn’t even ask for the money back.
    He smiled, revealing teeth that were obviously his. “Thank you. That’s very kind. But you wouldn’t tell Aaron about it, would you?”
    “He doesn’t know?”
    “I’m sure he suspects, but he doesn’t know the details. Not unless one of the others told him.”
    “The others?”
    “My sisters.”
    “The Beeftrust?” I clamped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Words can’t be stuffed back in like cookie crumbs.
    He chuckled. “Why do you think they call themselves that? It’s not their size, you know. It’s because they’re co-owners of my farm.”
    “What?”
    He nodded. “The farm was left jointly to all of us. I would have bought them out, but like I said, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together at the time.”
    “You still don’t,” I said gently.
    “My sisters didn’t want to sell anyway. They’d all grown up on the farm and liked the idea of owning a piece of it. They also liked the idea of running things, even if they didn’t like the work.”
    “Tell me about it, Pops. Susannah wants me to turn the PennDutch into a retirement home for movie stars. Gollywood, she wants to call it. But she can’t even take out the trash without being told three times.”
    “My sisters—well, you’ve seen them—could have each done a man’s job. We could have turned the farm into the biggest cattle spread east of the Mississippi if they had done more than just talk about what they wanted.”
    Our eyes met in sibling-inspired sympathy. Sisters! There when you don’t need them, gone when you do.
    “But cheer up,” I said brightly, “from now on things are going to be looking up.”
    “No, they won’t.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “The money I owe is to my sisters.”
    “You are the Bottomless Pit?”
    “The farm, Magdalena, not me. You can’t run a farm with a bunch of bosses and just one working hand. Even the Bible will tell you that.”
    “They all have different ideas?”
    “They and their husbands. No two of us could ever agree on anything. I thought we should stick with Aberdeen Angus, but Lizzie thought Shorthorns were more practical. Leah wanted Herefords, but oh, no, Vonnie just had to have Charolais. They were so pretty, she said. As for Magdalena—”
    “So you went in every direction but up?” Some folks need a little help in summarizing.
    “Yes. And guess who gets the blame?”
    “Well, they’ll get over it as soon as you sell the farm and pay them back.”
    “And then what?”
    “And then you’ll finally have some peace.”
    He stared at me. His eyes had once been an intense blue like his son’s, but they were faded now, like bleached denim. And the irises were crosshatched, like denim, with tiny lines.
    “Won’t you?” I asked.
    “But where?”
    I waved a hand. “Wherever you decide to go. Florida, maybe. Or the Mennonite Home for the Aged over in Somerset.”
    His throat laughed, but his eyes didn’t. “Just like I thought. You don’t really understand, Magdalena. I am broke—or I will be as